Watson's Woes July 2014
by Pompey
Summary: Creating a master-list of fics for my challenge answers for 2014. Various universes, varying lengths, varying levels of darkness, but all whumping on Watson.
1. July 1 - Worth It (slip prompt)

Title: Worth It

Author: Pompey

Rating: G

Summary: The things one must go through to capture a criminal.

Warnings: none

Word count: 211(B)

Challenge: July 1 - slipping sign

* * *

Only a desperate man would attempt to flee across the Serpentine in late February, when the river was barely frozen and even showed patches of open water here and there. Charles Fields was desperate enough to try it. Sherlock Holmes was determined enough to follow him. As for Dr. Watson and Inspector Lestrade, neither would leave Holmes in the lurch, no matter how unstable the ice looked. However, Watson could not help muttering, "If one of us ends up in the water, I will never let Holmes hear the end of it" before giving chase himself.

Even given the slippery terrain, Watson might have outpaced Lestrade but cold stiffened his previously wounded leg and the Yarder easily passed him. This placed him in the perfect position to be hit squarely in the nose when Lestrade slipped and flailed futilely to regain his balance.

By the time both had recovered and reached Fields and Holmes, the latter had tackled the former, and there was little left to do other than hold down the squirming criminal and snap the darbies on him. Nevertheless, once back to the safety of the shore, the capture of Fields – and Holmes's insistence that the glory be shared between the three of them – did much to help Lestrade forget his bruises and Watson his mustache soaked with blood.


	2. July 2 - Unsung Hero (animal prompt)

Title: Unsung Hero

Author: Pompey

Rating: PG

Universe: ACD Canon

Warnings: possibly triggery for war

Word Count: 731

Summary: War is hell for horses too.

Challenge: July 2 – animals animals animals

I had always known I was no pedigree horse. My height is below average – far too large to be a pony yet a full hand and a half shorter than most of the work horses – and my coat and mane are a plain brown. My mother was a cart horse and as for my father, I have no knowledge. All that set me apart from the other horses of England was my strength and my obedience. My strength I attribute to my mother's bloodline, for though a mare, she could pull as heavy a load as any stallion. My obedience, though, was taught to me by men. Too often it went hard on horses if they displeased their masters by responding to commands too slowly or in the wrong manner. I found that if I watched and listened carefully, I might anticipate commands and please him who drove me. I think it was these two qualities combined that had be sent off overseas to serve the soldiers there.

Oh! how I hated that place! The ground was soft and shifted beneath my feet. I was forever encountering sharp rocks that cropped out unexpectedly to trip me. What grass there was tasted odd and unwholesome, and the water was scarce and foul. Worse, the sun beat down upon us relentlessly until our mouths and noses were parched and cracked.

Even with my strength, I was too small and weak to be a cannon-horse, and utterly unsuitable to be a war mount. Such things were granted only to the fine thoroughbreds. I was assigned to carry gear instead. At first, I was much downhearted at my lowly position until I recognized that the pouches strapped to my back contained water. Water was the most important thing to us horses, and the second most important thing to the men.

What could be more important than water in that horrid land? I could not then nor do I now understand it. All I knew of it was cracks of small thunder and pounding of big thunder though the sky remained clear and light. There wretched billows of dust with a harsh smell, and then the awful stench of men's blood – and horse blood too, for it was not only the soldiers to fall dead. The men called these occurrences "battle." I found them quite terrible. But then, I am only an animal and perhaps men know better than I.

Terrible though it was, I knew my duties and did them as well as I could. When the men traveled, I traveled. When they rested, I rested. And when the awful smells and sounds began, I stayed behind and did not stray, for the supplies I bore might be sorely needed at any time. And so it went on, day after day.

One day, in the apex of summer, there was another battle. I saw little difference in it that in previous ones. This one was different, though. The men I traveled with turned around and ran back towards me. They paid me no mind but ran like hares when the hounds are after it. I heard the dreadful cries of men as they fell to earth, and the shrill screams of horses as either they too fell, injured, or panicked with fear. I did not blame them, for the very air was heavy with foul odors and there was no one to lead us or give us guidance. Even I, taught to stand and wait, grew anxious and fidgety.

Then one man ran up to me and seized my bridle. He drew a short knife and I – I am ashamed to say – started, fearing he meant me harm. But instead, he sliced through the straps holding the packs about me. "Whoa, boy. Come on," said he. It was counter to my duties but my desire to please did not permit me to fight.

He led me to a man who lay on the ground bleeding and gasping. "Stand," my new master ordered me. This I could do, happily, and so I stood while the warm weight of the bleeding man was heaved onto my pack. My master again took the bridle and began leading me and my burden in the same direction as the fleeing men.

"You seem fresh enough," the master murmured to me. "Pray God you've the strength to make it to Kandahar."


	3. July 3 - Call of the Wild (limits prompt

Title: Call of the Wild

Author: Pompey

Rating: G

Universe: Basil books

Warnings: none

Word Count: 568

Summary: Help in a perilous situation comes from a surprising source.

Challenge: July 3 – I never get your limits

Basil and I ever-so-slowly pressed ourselves more tightly against the brick wall. We were scarcely four feet from our own front door but the tortoiseshell tomcat – a stranger to Baker Street – stalking us was even closer. One of us might be able to dash to the door . . . but only if the other provided a distraction.

"Run, Dawson," Basil whispered, scarcely audible. "I shall draw him off."

"No!" I protested immediately. "You are the faster runner; you have a much better chance than I of reaching safety."

The cat's fearsome head lowered slowly, the yellow eyes fixed steadily on us all the while. It was close enough now for us to smell the stench of his carnivorous breath.

"For the last time, Dawson, run!"

"_You_ run!" I snapped back.

We might have crouched there bickering until our foe sprung, but at that moment came the unmistakable sound of a dog's growl. It was high-pitched, for a dog, but it was nevertheless menacing. One of the cat's ears twitched and his gaze upon us lost some of its intensity. The dog growl increased in volume until, as dogs are wont to do, they gave way into fierce, territorial barking. The cat turned to look over his shoulder . . . and Basil and I immediately sprinted to our door. Once inside, we collapsed against the walls, panting and shaking.

"Something will have to be done about that thing," Basil declared in a voice that was not entirely steady. "We cannot have cats roaming around, even if we do have a new canine friend and ally."

"Indeed," I said once I had my breath back. "Perhaps our new friend has some ideas. What sort of dog do you suppose it was? One of those tiny lapdog breeds?"

"Perhaps, although the odds of such a dog being allowed to roam the backstreets unattended is improbable," replied Basil, sounding more like himself. "A terrier seems most likely, and a young one at that to have such a high voice."

"Oh, Mr. Basil! Dr. Dawson!" We were attacked in earnest then, but this time by a distraught Mrs. Judson, who flung her paws about us and sobbed. "I saw the whole thing! That dreadful beast!"

"There, Mrs. Judson," Basil soothed, patting her arm. "We are completely unharmed. We'll all have a cup of tea and sit quietly for a bit. I'm sorry you were given such a fright but it worked out in the end. Who knows – perhaps this encounter shall lead to an alliance with the dog who rescued us."

"The _dog_ who rescued you!" Indignantly, Mrs. Judson pulled away, eyes flashing. "The dog indeed! That was no dog, Mr. Basil – it was I!"

"You!" I gasped.

A faint, proud smile hovered on her mouth. "Yes, Doctor, I. When I saw that you were in danger I nipped out the back way, hid myself behind the cat, and performed my impersonation. In my youth I learned to imitate the calls of several animals, friend and foe. One never knows when it might come in handy, and a dog's growl is one of the simplest to do. A screech owl, on the other hand, took much longer to perfect. Would you care to hear it?"

"My dear Mrs. Judson," Basil said quickly but warmly, "after such a convincing performance, if you say you have perfected the cry of the screech owl, I trust your judgment entirely."


	4. July 4 - Best Efforts (Whitman prompt)

Title: Best Efforts

Author: Pompey

Rating: G

Universe: ACD Canon

Warnings: none

Word Count: 250

Summary: Sticks and stones may break my bones . . .

Challenge: July 4 – Whitman poem

It was an ambitious project for a man whose closest attempts at literature were his private diary entries. Nevertheless, he felt the abilities of his friend were so remarkable – and the glory-hogging of the police so unjust – that he simply must try.

It took a full six years to write up the account to his (and his agent's) satisfaction and to publish it. The publication itself was disappointing: paltry pay; cheap paper; a cover picture that failed to encompass anything integral to the plot; and to top it off, a serial poisoner was hardly a seasonal topic for Christmas. On the other hand, it was thrilling to see the fruits of his labor there in tangible form for all to see.

The response was also disappointing. The public took little note of it. The Yarders let him know in no uncertain terms they did not appreciate his portrayal of them. But the unkindest cut of all was from Sherlock Holmes himself, the man he had secretly tried so hard to please with his attempts.

"Honestly, I cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."

Which was the last proverbial straw. "But the romance was there," Watson retorted. "I could not tamper with the facts."


	5. July 5 - Told You So (pic of treepiano)

Title: Told You So

Author: Pompey

Rating: G

Universe: Elementary

Warnings: possible triggery for inclement weather

Word Count: 100

Summary: Sometimes it takes a bolt out of the blue to make Sherlock understand.

Challenge: July 5 – image of tree growing through a piano

Joan had survived Hurricane Sandy. Sherlock had not. Joan took the warning about Hurricane Lewis to heart. Sherlock decided to risk it by tracking their perpetrator into one of the McMansions dotting the Jershey shoreline.

In the end, it was not Joan's scoldings, nor even the hurricane bearing down on them while inside the mansion that made the biggest impression on Sherlock. It was the sight of Joan gingerly picking bits of bark out of her wet hair – behind the piano that now had a large tree sticking out of it, coming to rest barely an inch from her head.


	6. July 6 - Pansies, That's for Thoughts

Title: Pansies, That's for Thoughts

Author: Pompey

Rating: PG

Universe: RDJ

Warnings: small, non-plot-related spoiler for "SH: Game of Shadows"

Word Count: 750

Summary: Beware of Holmeses bearing gifts.

A/N: title comes from _Hamlet_ Act 4, Scene v

Challenge: July 6 – botanical gift

* * *

Watson's eyebrows shot up at the profusion of foliage that seemed to have sprung up in his sitting room. "Mary, my dear," he said hesitantly, "I know you had planned to start a garden but I had thought you meant to do it out of doors."

She merely laughed and kissed him on the cheek. "And so I shall, just as soon as all this can be moved to out of doors. At the moment I would be glad of a helping hand."

"And why was your garden not started out of doors in the first place?" Watson asked, picking up a tray of budding lily-of-the-valley to carry outside.

Mary hefted a pot of young tansy and followed him. "Mr. Sherlock Holmes," she said, as though sharing a joke's punchline. "He had all these plants sent to me with a note apologizing for his uncouth behavior prior to – prior to his return."

"_Holmes_ apologized? In writing?"

"He hopes that he and I might become friends," she replied simply. Watson paused at that, then smiled slightly and set down his burden.

"I hope so too," he said softly and cleared his throat. "Just as I hope you can find space for all of these. I don't think I could name half of these. What is that one?"

Mary glanced at the plant in question. "That one is foxglove, and the one behind it is Queen Anne's lace. Mr. Holmes seems to favor proper English flowers."

"Queen Anne's lace?" Watson repeated, squinting at it. "Are you sure?"

"Well, what else could it be?" Mary asked. "Besides, you yourself said you couldn't name half the plants here."

Watson shook his head and bent to take a closer look. "This looks familiar, and not as Queen Anne's lace. I think it – it almost looks like – " He straightened suddenly with a thunderous expression. "Mary, I must leave. Immediately."

Alarm bloomed across her features. "Why? What is it?"

With an effort, Watson tried to smile reassuringly. "Nothing serious, I think, but I prefer to ask Holmes about it first. Leave the flowers where they are. They shan't harm you," he added, praying he would not be proved a liar.

. . . . .

Watson was a gentleman always. Therefore, he waited until Mrs. Hudson was out of earshot before roaring, "Water hemlock!" at the detective slumped across the sofa.

Holmes inclined his head minutely. "And a good day to you too, Watson."

"Do not play games with me, Holmes, not when you have sent my wife half a greenhouse of deadly plants!" He stomped across the sitting room until he stood glowering over Holmes. "Tansy and lily-of-the-valley, fine. Foxglove, acceptable. But water hemlock, Holmes? Water hemlock! And God only knows what else!"

"What else?" Holmes addressed the ceiling. "Oh, monkshood, deathcamas, belladonna, corn-cockle, delphinium, cuckoo-pint, meadow saffron, common ivy, daffodils, lupines – North American lupines, Watson, you have no idea how difficult it was to obtain that particular specimen. You might show a little gratitude."

"Gratitude!" Watson spat, but the anger soon drained out of him and he sank into the nearest chair. "Why, Holmes?" he whispered. "Why would you try to poison Mary?"

"Poison Mary?" Holmes repeated. At last he sat up and gave Watson his undivided attention. "I am not trying to poison her. Nor am I trying to stab, garrote, strangle, or harm her in any way. Really, Watson, that is unworthy of you."

Watson looked hard at his friend, who did appear to be genuinely offended. At last he sighed and held his head, utterly at the end of his rope. "Then what in the world were you trying to do?"

"Your wife wants a garden. I am in want of a reliable source of botanical poisons. Purely for experimental purposes, of course. This was the easiest and most logical solution."

"Logical," Watson repeated dully.

"Yes, logical." Reassured by the doctor's lack of resistance, Holmes resumed his previous position. "It gives me a reason to leave my sanctity of Baker Street to visit you."

The silence from Watson was profound and disturbing. Holmes glanced over at him in time to see a deep hurt painted over by a fresh rage. Watson stood. Though he did not shrink back, Holmes felt his body tense.

"Did it ever occur to you," Watson said quietly, dangerously, "that our friendship might be reason enough for you to visit?" He did not wait for Holmes to respond but turned sharply on his heel and strode out of the sitting room.


	7. July 7 - Witness (prompt: wrong memory)

Title: Witness

Author: Pompey

Rating: PG

Universe: BBC

Warnings: none?

Word Count: 265

Summary: Sherlock expects more from John. John disappoints him.

Challenge: July 7 – someone's remembers something different than it was in reality

"The woman who robbed the victim wore a red coat, John, not white. The woman in the white coat was nothing more than a bystander, like you. The getaway car was grey, not pale blue. Moreover, the woman in the red coat handed off the wallet to the street vendor, right here –" Sherlock paused the footage and jabbed at the screen, "so there was little reason to go chasing after her or the car if your immediate goal was to retrieve the wallet. And if not for this CCTV recording, the police would never know how shoddy your testimony was. In short, John -"

"I'm bollocks as an eye witness," John finished neutrally. At least, his voice was neutral. But Lestrade could see the tightness in his jaw, the rigidly held shoulders, and the gaze fixed firmly at the wall past Sherlock rather than on his flatmate. And if someone didn't step in, Sherlock was going to keep verbally flagellating John, and John was going to keep accepting it. And internalizing it.

"That's enough, both of you," Lestrade shouted. "Look, false memories are not a sign of stupidity or moral failing, OK? Stressful events are harder to remember accurately."

"Not for John!" Sherlock snapped, viciously swiping his arm through the air as if to smack away the very idea. "Other people with their tiny brains that go to pieces when something big, bad, and scary happens create false memories under stress. Not John."

Lestrade waited for John to say something – anything! – in his defense. But all he said was a quiet,

"You're right."


	8. July 8 -Concerned Citizen (villain pov)

Title: A Concerned Citizen

Author: Pompey

Rating: G

Universe: ACD (Baring-Gould timeline with an AU twist – see footnote)

Warnings: none?

Word Count: 448

Summary: The worst man in London tells his side.

Challenge: July 8 – villain pov

* * *

I know all their secrets, everything they wish to keep hidden, every filthy stain on every piece of dirty laundry. They are so proper and refined in public yet they engage in such sordid practices when they think the doors are closed! I almost blush to think of it. Of course, I do not think of such things unless I must. I, unlike some, take my morals quite seriously indeed and I am no hypocrite.

Isn't it odd, then, that they all think so little of me? I only ensure that they reap what they themselves have sewn, nothing more. My only crime is being born in poverty but possessing the wits and nerve to drag myself upwards. Well, and the secrets I gather, I suppose. The law is so short-sighted about my line of work.

One might expect Americans to appreciate my little Horatio Alger story more than my fellow countrymen. One would be wrong. I suppose that is because my current client is not a true American but rather an Englishman who spent some time in America. Quite a fruitful time he had too – establishing a medical practice and gaining a wife at the same time. It is quite a pity that only the former was transported back to England.

Oh, I have no doubt that do mishaps happen. The Atlantic is a wide stretch of water and messages may be lost or misinterpreted. Perhaps the lady disappeared into the wilds of her country. Perhaps the doctor believed he was a widower and free to marry again. Perhaps it was an honest mistake and not the act of a faithless cad. Nevertheless, the fact remains that he did take wed again when he was not free to. Bigamy, as the law so harshly puts it.

Now, as a concerned citizen, I could alert the police and show them what I have. This would result in a trial that would be highly embarrassing for both the doctor and his new wife. I have no wish to cause the poor lady any distress if it could possibly be avoided. My way is the far kinder one. I provide the quiet and private path to contrition. For a fee, of course, and in my client's case, it will be one of my larger fees. But please note that I never charge more than my client's means, not really. Not if they are willing to make a few sacrifices. Sacrifices that are far softer than the ones I had to make in my younger years.

I am confident he will pay. He is well-to-do and well-known, both thanks to his publications over the years. Oh, yes. The doctor will pay.

* * *

(1) William S. Baring-Gould, in _Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street_, claims that Watson was called to America to tend his sick brother in the early to mid 1880s. While there, he sets up a medical practice and meets and marries a woman named Constance Adams. Watson returns to England and later sends for Constance. She is wife #1 in the Baring-Gould timeline. She dies about nine months before SIGN. Mary then becomes wife #2. (And wife #3 happens around 1902 or so.)


	9. July 9 - Precautions (misadventures)

Title: Precautions

Author: Pompey

Rating: G

Universe: BBC

Warnings: teeny tiny spoiler for "Scandal in Belgravia"

Word Count: 428

Summary: The origin story of "Vatican cameos."

Challenge: July 9 - **Choose your own (mis)adventure. **Use one or more of the following words in today's entry: pratfall, spit-take, faceplant, head-smack, double-take, slip.

John sighed when they finally reached the flat. "I will get the ice. You will make tea." His tone made it plain there was to be no arguments or protests. Sherlock offered neither. Nor did he point out that the bag John retrieved was not ice but rather frozen peas. It was a simple deduction anyway: the ice packs they had were rigid and would not mold around a bruised eye socket.

When the tea was properly steeped, Sherlock brought both cups over to the sitting room. John was leaning back in his chair with feet propped up, good eye closed. His breathing indicated he was still awake so Sherlock left the cup on the closest table to hand and curled up with his own cup.

"You knew Lenard was going to throw a punch at me," John said suddenly.

"Not at you personally," Sherlock corrected. "But if you mean he was going to punch whoever the first person to come around the corner, then yes."

"You knew I was going to get hit and you didn't warn me."

Ah. So that was why John was so tetchy. Sherlock had been chalking it up to a failed attempt at hiding pain. "There was no way to warn you without him hearing."

John's one good eye opened and scowled at him. "And suppose he had had a gun. Would have let me get shot – again - rather than tip off the perp?"

Luckily Sherlock had only started to sip his tea so he was able to avoid a spit-take. That – that was something he had not thought of before. Shamefully negligent on his part. John was quite right. Such a scenario was unacceptable. "A code word," he mused out loud.

"Sorry, what?"

"We need a code word," Sherlock repeated. "Something I can say that only you will understand."

John sat up a little bit. "Something that means 'duck and cover' actually saying those words."

"But something unusual to avoid making mistakes." Sherlock thought for a moment. "Cameos." It was acceptable: an uncommon word and sounded vaguely like "cover" which increased the likelihood of John remembering what it meant.

"Vatican cameos," John amended suddenly.

"What's wrong with just 'cameos'?" Sherlock asked, half curious and half annoyed by the unnecessary addition to his suggestion.

"Because if we ever have a case with an antique dealer, 'cameos' could cause too much confusion."

Well, that was logical enough. But . . . "Why 'Vatican'?"

John settled back and raised his mug. "As a reminder that I'm in no hurry to receive Last Rites."


	10. July 10 - The Bizarre Field (sports)

Title: The Bizarre Field

Author: Pompey

Rating: G

Universe: ACD Canon (and expanded Canon)

Warnings: none

Word Count: 409

Summary: Doyle has taken some liberties; Watson will even the score.

Challenge: July 10 – sports

* * *

Author's Notes, with Tiresome but Pertinent History Lessons:

1) In the late 1800s, it was possible to practice medicine with only a Bachelor of Medicine, although legally that person would have no right to the title "doctor" (see also Dr. Mortimer in HOUND.)

2) STUDY makes it abundantly clear that Watson did obtain a full M.D. (plus some post-doctoral studies for surgeons in the Army.)

3) In 1871, Blackheath's rugby team (the team Watson was on, see also VAMP) played against the University of Edinburgh. Blackheath lost by one point.

4) You don't _have_ to read Doyle's little scribble called "The Field Bazaar" to understand this story, but I strongly recommend it for clarity's sake. Actually, no, go read it. This story can wait. Really, go now. It's at Diogenes-club DOT com BACKSLASH bazaar DOT htm

* * *

Holmes knew and appreciated that Watson was a fast and efficient packer, but now the doctor was a veritable whirlwind, so Holmes chose a safe and strategic position from the doorway. "You've plenty of time to catch your train," he said mildly.

"I'm taking the earlier one," came the brusque reply.

"Ah." Watson's anger towards Dr. Doyle had not cooled one jot then. "I do hope you will be discreet if you are planning anything rash."

Watson finally paused his frantic packing and smiled wolfishly. "According to Poe, the best way to hide anything is to put it in plain sight. I know you have little respect for his creation but that is good advice nonetheless."

Oh dear. Not that he blamed Watson, not after that insulting little fabrication Doyle tried to pass off as Watson's. But one of Watson's few faults was a tendency to hotheadedness. Hotheadedness often led to sloppy mistakes. "May I ask what your plan entails? My advice and expertise is at your disposal."

"Many thanks, Holmes, but I fear you will be out of your depth." Fortunately, Watson's smile had softened into genuine mirth and his tone followed suit. "It involves rugby, and that is _my_ expertise."

"Is it not also the expertise of Doyle? I believe he is currently playing for a team in Southsea."

Watson's smile grew crafty again. "Yes. He is. Therein lies the beauty of the plan, and why I must leave so quickly to put it into play."

Rugby was indeed not Holmes's expertise, so Watson was nearly at the stairs by the time his deductions were complete. "You mean to challenge Doyle to a rugby match, under the guise of fundraising for the University of Edinburgh. The author versus the literary agent is to be the major draw?"

"And also Blackheath versus Edinburgh," Watson said. "We played them fifteen years ago and lost to them by one point. We did beat them a year later, but, well." He shrugged. "The sting of the original defeat lingers."

"My dear Watson," Holmes began cautiously, "I cannot fault your ingenuity. But Doyle has been keeping himself in training specific to the sport and is younger by a few years."

Watson nodded. "I have taken that into consideration and I don't see it being a problem. The other team members will be university students at their primes. And," he added with a growing smirk, "Doyle is a goalkeeper. _I_ was a half-back."


	11. July 11 - Of Mice and Mites (save bees)

Title: Of Mice and Mites

Author: Pompey

Rating: G

Universe: Basil of Baker Street

Warnings: none

Word Count: 736

Summary: Dawson has an unusual patient.

Challenge: July 11 – save the bees!

A/N: I know insecticide is the primary cause of colony collapse but it was too anachronistic for this 'verse. Also, cheese scones to everyone who correctly guesses why the bee is named Albus. ;)

* * *

Mr. Brackenworth was something of an eccentric. A water vole, he had chosen to room in the belfry of a small church. He tended towards loose-fitting clothing solely in shades of red. He also kept a small but unique menagerie of pets, as I was to discover.

"That is a bumblebee!" I exclaimed, recoiling from the basket that he had carried into my consulting room.

"He is nothing of the sort," said Mr. Brackenworth, stroking the furry thing lovingly. "Albus is a honeybee and he's as harmless as chalk. I took him from the hive when he was just a pupa and he's been with me ever since."

I started to ask how the vole could have possibly made it in and out of a honeybee hive unscathed – and why he should want to do it in the first place – but changed my mind. That was one rabbit hole I not wish to go down. "What is it I can do for you, Mr. Brackenworth?"

"Albus is peaky," came the simple answer. "I want you to find out why."

I hesitated. I was trained in Rodentia medicine although I imagined I could tend to any variety of mammals. On one occasion I had been asked to treat a lizard, which went reasonably well, given how limited my resources were at the time. But an insect's anatomy is far different than that of vertebrates, and I said as much.

"You could at least try!" Mr. Brackenworth protested. "I already tried an insectivist. He said that since Albus is a drone he was likely dying of old age. Albus is not even a month old! No, there's something else wrong with him. You have some sense to you, Doctor. If you can't find anything, at least I can rest easy knowing I tried to do write by my poor fellow."

The vole might be a bit strange but there was no denying the fondness in his voice as he spoke of his pet. It was for that reason I found myself promising to do my best, however paltry that might be.

The preliminary examination showed that Albus did respond to stimuli but slowly and sluggishly. His wings seemed strong enough and his fuzzy coat was stick thick and soft. Nothing was abnormal to my untrained eyes, so at last I offered him some sugar water as a sort of apology for failing. Albus hesitantly accepted it as well as my gentle stroking of his thorax. I was on the point of admitting defeat when I felt something unpleasantly ticklish on my paw. Withdrawing, I saw a small, brown creature crawling across my fur.

"Mites!" Mr. Brackenworth exclaimed after I - I am ashamed to say – gave a cry of disgust and shook the thing off me. "Heavens, I had no idea that bees could get mites!"

"Nor did I, but if we rodents can get infested with parasites, I suppose insects can too." It was a rather unsettling thought but logical in its way. Of course, it still did not answer the question of how to get rid of the mites.

"Oh, I have just the thing!" the vole chuckled. "A good, fine-toothed comb should do the trick nicely. It works on us, after all!"

I did not envy him the job of combing through an entire bee who, for all I knew did not appreciate such ministrations. However, Mr. Brackenworth was satisfied and after paying the fee, took both his leave and his bee.

I related this small adventure to Basil, expecting to share a laugh with him. To my surprise, he took the frowned over certain parts of my story – not over anything I had done but because his quick mind had seen what I had missed. "Mr. Brackenworth took Albus from the hive as a pupa less than four weeks ago?"

"Yes, but what does that have to do with the mites?"

Very quietly, Basil asked, "How did Albus get the mites in the first place?"

"You mean he was already infested in the hive?" I gasped. "But he was only a pupa! The mite population would have to have been truly atrocious to get through the comb to reach him."

My friend nodded and rose from his chair. "Indeed, Dawson. We must leave immediately. We may be too late to save Albus's home hive but perhaps we might save the rest of the bees."


	12. July 12 - Gratitude (prompt: cheese)

Title: Gratitude

Author: Pompey

Rating: G

Universe: Eve Titus's Basil of Baker Street

Warnings: none

Word Count: 100

Summary: Too much of a good thing is usually a bad thing.

Challenge: July 12 – cheese

* * *

The return of the famous masterpiece Mousa Lisa to France was cause for an exquisite banquet in Basil's – and to a lesser extent, my – honor. And what a banquet it was! There was Cheddar and Stilton from England; mozzarella and parmesan from Italy; gruyere from Switzerland; manchengo and mahon from Spain; Edelpilzkäse from Germany; brie and blue cheese from France; and even Monterey Jack from America and queso fresco from Mexico.

I attempted to exhibit some self-control but inevitably a nibble or two became three or four. And that evening, I had never wished so desperately that mice could vomit.


	13. July 13 - Double Entendre (Victorianism)

Title: Double Entendre

Author: Pompey

Rating: PG-13

Universe: Elementary

Warnings: mentions of sex

Word Count: 150

Summary: Joan is not familiar with a certain English term.

Challenge: July 13 – a Canon phrase with a different meaning nowadays (or in a different location)

* * *

Joan quietly cleared her throat. "Sherlock? What exactly does 'rubber' mean in England?"

He looked at her with the faintest beginnings of laughter in his eyes. He thought he knew why she was asking but just to make sure . . . "Besides the latex derived from a particular tree sap, it can refer to a pencil eraser." Sherlock waited just long enough for Joan to dissolve into utter confusion before adding, "it is also a type of card game. I believe whist is the most common variation. And Merryweather is a member of a card club here in London."

"Oh." There was no mistaking the relief in Joan's voice. Sherlock couldn't resist.

"Honestly, Joan, did you really think that Merryweather has so regimented a sex life that he has had protected intercourse every Saturday night for twenty-five years?"

"Well, he does seem the type to stick to a schedule!" she protested.


	14. July 14 - For A Good Cause (cooperation)

Title: For A Good Cause

Author: Pompey

Rating: G

Universe: BBC

Warnings: none

Word Count: 250

Summary: The lengths they will go for a fundraiser.

Challenge: July 14 – three people working together, who may not have gotten along before

* * *

John didn't particularly mind being put in a potentially embarrassing situation if the cause was good. In this case, the cause was a joint fundraiser between St. Bart's and Scotland Yard to raise money for childhood cancer research. Admittedly, the cause was more the hospital's. However, the fundraiser itself was less so.

It was to be a sort of human fox hunt, where each "fox" was assigned to a group of three "hounds." The fox was also given a red jersey, a colored armband, and a fifteen minute head start. The "hounds" had to track and capture their fox across London within ninety minutes. If the fox was free at the end of the ninety minutes, each of the hounds was obliged to pay at least 10 pounds (although more was definitely encouraged.) But if the fox was captured before time was up, the fox paid a minimum of 30 pounds.

John mentioned in passing to Molly Hooper that he'd like to participate if only he could find some people to team up with as he didn't fancy signing up as a lone fox. Molly in turn said that both she and Sally Donovan were in the same boat. The solution was simple: the three of them would sign up as a team of hounds.

What they hadn't counted on was that Sherlock, inexplicably, had signed himself up as a fox. John looked at his team's color, then at Sherlock's armband. _Well_, he reflected resignedly, _I can afford ten pounds_.


	15. July 15 - Metamorphosis (prompt: crack)

Title: Metamorphosis

Author: Pompey

Rating: G

Universe: BBC

Warnings: oh, the crack!

Word Count: 221B

Summary: See warning, see prompt. See them run. Run, crack, run.

Challenge: July 15 – cracky cracky crack crack

* * *

There was a unicorn in the room, moon-pale with ice blue eyes and a mane and tail of ebony curls. Its expression of contempt wouldn't have looked out of place on any mystical creature trapped in the mundane world. But this scowl was decidedly . . . Sherlockian.

"John!" the unicorn bellowed, or tried to. Unicorn throats are not designed to do anything as common as bellow. The call ended up sounding like a low echo reverberating through an ancient cavern.

"Yes, Sherlock," replied a weary squeak.

"Where are you?" The unicorn's scowl grew blacker as it saw no one.

"I'm hiding. Don't bother looking for me because I'm not coming out. Just tell me what you want."

The unicorn snorted. "Want? I want an explanation for this!"

"Well, I don't have one. But I can tell you it's not just us. Mrs. Hudson is Gaia, Lestrade is a warlock – NOT a witch – and Mike Stamford is some kind of will-o-wisp."

"And you? What have you become?"

John sighed. "If I show you, and you laugh, I swear I will find a way to kill you."

Sherlock stared at the six-inch creature with flowing yellow hair and wearing a bright blue cap, jacket, and old-fashioned trousers. "What in the world are you?" he repeated incredulously.

John sighed again. "I'm a brownie."


	16. July 16 - Enough (beware fury patient ma

Title: Enough

Author: Pompey

Rating: PG

Universe: ACD (meta)

Warnings: meta-fiction and a poorly disguised rant

Word Count: 677

Summary: Holmes and Watson have had enough of being pushed around by a certain doctor.

Challenge: July 16 - "Beware the fury of a patient man." (John Dryden)

* * *

Three men sat around the table, each covering his anger with a veneer of civility. Finally, the tall and strongly built man spoke.

"You realize I still hold the copyright to the final ten stories."

"But not the other fifty," replied Sherlock Holmes.

"Copyright on the characters and characteristics of the ten must inherently apply to the whole, due to the dynamics which evolved over the course of the years(1)."

"The American courts disagree with you."

"I am appealing."

"You shall lose as you have no case."

"My case rests upon the fact that (2) many aspects of the characters' natures are not revealed until the final ten stories."

"I believe you mean the final nine stories, since _The Creeping Man_ has already become part of the public domain."

"Nine, then, but my the rest of the argument stands firm."

"Indeed? Pray elaborate."

The Scottish doctor briefly consulted his notebook. "In _The Sussex Vampire_, we learn that Dr. Watson played rugby for Blackheath. It is also the first and only mention of the Giant Rat of Sumatra and the ship _Matilda Briggs_."

"Rugby for Blackheath? And only twenty years before that, it was written that he played cricket for the University of Edinburgh," Holmes mocked. "Of course, that was also the drivel claiming Watson did not in fact obtain his M.D. in '78." (3)

"In _The Illustrious Client_, Watson has taken rooms on Queen Anne's Street. Also, readers learn of your fondness for the Turkish baths."

"An address does not a personality make. And given the number of previous references to said fondness for the baths, I hardly think that constitutes a revelation."

"_The Three Gables_ introduces the character Langdale Pike."

"Who is nowhere mentioned in your lawsuit. The same applies to Steve Dixie, incidentally, but I see you are in no hurry to claim copyright on the second and final Negro character we interact with. Are you an English snob, Doctor?"

The doctor merely turned a page of his notebook. "In _The Three Garridebs_, the readers learn not only that 221B has a telephone installed but that you refused a knighthood. They are finally allowed to see the depth of your feelings where Dr. Watson is concerned."

Holmes's jaw tightened. "I trust the readers were well aware of that prior to Watson's blood-letting."

"_The Blanched Soldier_ – "

"You are most welcome to retain copyrights on." Holmes waved a dismissive hand.

"_The Lion's Mane_ –"

"Likewise."

Doyle raised an eyebrow in annoyance. "Despite its discussion of your retirement years?"

"_His Last Bow_ is public domain and provides an adequate account."

"_The Retired Colourman_ introduced the character of your rival detective, Barker. We also learn that Dr. Watson's old school number was thirty-six."

Holmes snorted. "A rival who sprang up and disappeared as quickly as a mushroom after the rain is scarcely worth the descriptor 'rival.' As for Watson's school number, I would be delighted to hear what insights as to his character that tidbit offers."

"_The Veiled Lodger_ indicated that the both of you possess the gene to detect the odor of cyanide."

"Oh, tut, Doctor! Nobody – yourself included - knew what genes were at the time of publication!"

"_Shoshcombe Old Place_ made mention of horse racing."

"As did _Silver Blaze_."

"Nevertheless – "

"**Enough**."

The single word held enough command that both Holmes and Doyle fell silent at once and looked towards the speaker.

Watson deliberately placed his hands on the table as if to steady himself. "You have made your arguments and they have been rebutted. You refuse to see reason. That is not all you refuse to see. The fact is, Holmes and I may have been solely creations of your pen but no more. We are not merely characters in our own rights. We are icons."

Watson stood and seemed to grow taller, more imposing, about to tower over Doyle. "We are a cultural shorthand. We exist in thousands of different worlds and tongues and incarnations. We are immortal, belonging to no one and nothing, save perhaps the ages. We are yours no longer."

* * *

(1) Paraphrasing of the Doyle Estate's actual argument

(2) "many aspects of the characters' natures are not revealed until the final ten stories" is a direct quote from the Doyle Estate

(3) The drivel in question is "The Field Bazaar". Dear Lord, I hate that thing.


	17. July 17 - Case of the Skeletons in Wall

Title: The Case of the Skeletons in the Wall

Author: Pompey

Rating: PG

Universe: ACD

Warnings: some general ickiness

Word Count: 384

Summary: Not all killings are murder.

Challenge: July 17 – inspiration from Victorian Strangeness (skeleton story)

* * *

It was a gruesome sight all on its own: the skeletons of two men, still clad in tattered rags, were wedged into a tiny hidden room beneath the ramshackle public house. What made it all the worse was how the first skeleton's hand still gripped the knife it was drawing across the throat of the second skeleton, while the second skeleton seemed to eternally jab a dagger into the throat of the first.

"What do you make of it, Watson?" Holmes murmured.

I decided to start with the obvious. "Each killed the other, and in the same manner." I tested the blade of the dagger and found it still sharp enough to draw blood. "The weapons were remarkably keen when this was done. Death would have been quick but not quite instantaneous."

Holmes nodded in acknowledgement of my proclamation. "How do you explain their presence here?"

"I could not guess."

"Good man! Never guess; it is the antithesis of deductive reasoning." So saying, Holmes passed the lantern to me and squeezed his way into that dreadful room. He peered at the scant remains of clothing and tarnished glints of jewelry. He ran his hand along the back of one skull almost compassionately. Then he stepped into the basement proper. "Let us take our leave, Watson," he said quietly, moving past me.

"You cannot have solved it already!" I gasped.

"It was scarcely a challenge, Watson," said he, turning back. "Parts of this public house date back to the late Tudor period. This room, for example, is a priest hole. One of the deceased has about his wrist a rosary of gilt over brass; the other carries a silver medal. Their bits of clothing are mostly linen with a few silk threads. Their blades were well crafted to retain such an edge after so many years. These men were not well-to-do but neither were they impoverished. Likely they had seen a reversal of their fortunes when they refused to renounce their Catholic beliefs when Henry VIII renounced his. It is also likely that they sought refuge here, only to be forgotten . . . or deliberately trapped."

"But if they shared the same religion, why should they kill one another?"

Holmes replied softly, "Because suicide was, and is, reason to disallow burial on church grounds."


	18. July 18 - Acceptance (prompt award)

Title: Appreciation

Author: Pompey

Rating: PG

Universe: BBC

Warnings: curse words

Word Count: 417

Summary: The Yard appreciates Sherlock in their own way.

Challenge: July 18 – an award given

* * *

"It has been precisely six minutes, John," Sherlock muttered. "That is one minute longer than I agreed to stay."

With right hand, John raised his glass of punch towards Lestrade, almost as though he were toasting. With his left, he took a death grip on Sherlock's lapel. "You're not going anywhere until – good. There he goes."

Lestrade, alerted by John's gesture that Sherlock was getting twitchy, was doing his level best to get everyone's attention. At last the room full of Scotland Yard employees was as quiet as it was going to get. "Right," he said, "an early Happy New Year to everyone! I know we're doing this a bit early but what the hell, it's just the Paper Plate Awards."

"The what?" Sherlock demanded. John shushed him.

"So, in keeping with today's tradition of doing everything a bit pear-shaped, we're doing the PITA award first."

"The _what_?" Sherlock repeated while the rest of the crowd groaned and protested good-naturedly.

Lestrade waved them quiet. "Oh, like it's going to be a surprise to anyone," he quipped, drawing some scattered laughter. "For being the most arrogant, prickly, boorish, antagonistic prat ever to swish around in a coat, but worst of all, for always being _right_, I announce that the winner of this year's Pain In The Ass Award is Sherlock Holmes."

John considered making a frantic dig for his mobile to capture for posterity the image of Sherlock looking positively gobsmacked. But other people were doing just that so John merely grinned and clapped. Sherlock stiffly went up to Lestrade to accept a paper plate with the legend "PITA" done up in gold glitter. By the time he got back to John, his face was carefully blank.

"You set me up," Sherlock said in an unreadable tone.

"Had to. Lestrade knew there was no way you'd come to a Scotland Yard New Year's Eve party if you knew you were going to be given a Paper Plate Award," replied John, unashamed. "But now that you've got it, we can go."

"No, we can't."

"What? Why not?"

Sherlock smiled faintly. "Lestrade is a double agent."

"_What_?" A mixture of dread and fear crept over John but it was too late. Lestrade already had another decorated paper plate in his hand.

"Our next winner is either lacking any sense of mental self-preservation, or is completely and utterly barmy himself, because he not only hangs around Sherlock Holmes but does so voluntarily. This year's Escaped Loony Award goes to John Watson!"


	19. July 19 - An Emotional Level (whumpage)

Title: An Emotional Level

Author: Pompey

Rating: PG

Universe: RDJ movies

Warnings: medical ickiness

Word Count: 616

Summary: Are you seriously telling me that Watson escaped that inferno with little more than a nasty burn on his shoulder?! AU for more realistic injuries/increased whump

Challenge: July 19 – unbridled Watson whumping

* * *

As Clarky advised, Holmes had gone, swiftly and immediately. But only temporarily. Watson may still be alive but in what condition? And for how long?

_This must not register on an emotional level_, he reminded himself. Emotion would paralyze him. He needed to keep his wits about him, if he did nothing else. And after that concussive blast, tailing the ambulance handcart without being spotted would be enough of a challenge.

Holmes was relieved to see his friend delivered to the Royal Hospital for Veterans. Watson was known there, and he himself knew the layout well enough to maneuver through it virtually unseen. A few quick touches – a false beard, a sprinkling of gray hair, a pair of spectacles, and a purloined white coat – and Holmes was able to infiltrate Watson's room.

_Do not let this register on an emotional level. Do not_.

He'd known it would be bad. Very bad, in fact. But this! Almost against his will he found himself cataloguing each injury. Burns already blistering horribly over fifty percent of the scalp, concentrated on the right side. Soot along the nostrils and mouth, indicating smoke inhalation. Wheezing breath confirms it. Likely heat injury to the eyes; possible damage to the eardrums. Probable concussion as well. Burns to the right side of the neck. Fracture to the right arm, also burns; that was the arm which Watson had held up to keep Holmes back from the worst of the explosion.

_Stay detached. No emotions_.

Probable fracture to the ribs, according to the real physicians. Holmes did not doubt it. The blast had knocked Watson entirely off his feet and into those wooden barrels. Bruising along the left hip and thigh, from the impact. Bruising to the left wrist and hand, ditto. And thousands of minute splinters imbedded into his clothing and skin.

Watson coughed suddenly, harsh on the exhalation, strained and desperate on the inhalation. Immediately the physicians rolled him to his bruised side but Holmes could not hear any improvement as a result. Watson curled in on himself as the coughing persisted. The more the doctors tried to guide him into other positions, the more he seemed to try to hide from them the only way he could.

Holmes stepped back behind the privacy curtain. The thin muslin did nothing to block out the sounds or the images he seemed to have scorched into his mind.

_Stop it. Control your emotions or they will master you_.

Watson, lying there in agony, because the man of action could not let the criminal get away without making an effort to stop him. He had let Watson run into danger. If he had only taken the time to observe this might have been avoided. He'd been quick enough to stop Watson from being run through by Blackwood's near-invisible blade. Why hadn't he been quick enough at the factory?

_Control . . . stay on the level of logic_.

Watson's cough choked off suddenly. Holmes turned and peeked around the curtain. Someone had given him morphine – the bottle and used syringe lay nearby - and it had finally taken hold. A tiny thread of blood snaked down his arm, untouched by the cloth held to the injection site. Holmes could not tear his gaze away from the sight. Watson's blood, flowing out of him. Just as his very life might be leaving him.

Any illusion of control was torn to shreds. Holmes turned away, his own throat aching. Watson had known the gypsy woman was only parroting Holmes's words when she spoke of lace doilies. He hoped Watson knew that when she spoke of two men, brothers in bond if not in blood, were his words also.


	20. July 20 - Coordination (prompt weather)

Title: Coordination

Author: Pompey

Rating: PG

Universe: Young Sherlock Holmes

Warnings: spoilers for the movie ending

Word Count: 75

Summary: Young Watson contemplates

Challenge: July 19 – sudden change in weather

The first time I ever saw Sherlock Holmes shed a tear was at the funeral of his mentor, Waxflatter. The day was a fine, sunny one – almost an insult to his grief – although it had been snowing when Waxflatter died.

Now, I stand helplessly, watching Holmes sob over the body of Elizabeth beneath a cold and clear sky. If the weather had any consideration for his feelings, there would be a blizzard at her funeral.


End file.
